Traffic picked up along Route 125, a few miles past Epping, New Hampshire, but it was still confined to two or three cars per minute, which hardly constituted a problem. The number of vehicles increased as they approached Kingston, doubling by the time they turned onto Route 107 and navigated several lesser-travelled rural roads to arrive at the Merrimack River, where they hoped to find at least one bridge intact.
They decided to start with Rocks Bridge, which was four miles downriver from Haverhill, in an attempt to minimize their exposure to populated areas. With a population of sixty-two thousand, Haverhill wasn’t a major city by greater Boston metropolitan area standards, but most of the population was packed in the area along the river, which made Alex uncomfortable. He had a long history with bridges.
His battalion commander in Iraq had affectionately called them “meat grinders,” and the bridges they encountered on the road to Baghdad had lived up to that nickname. For centuries, if not millennia, men had fought and died to control bridges, even under the most pointless of circumstances. The incident at Milton Mills proved that under the right conditions, even the most insignificant bridge could spill its share of blood.
They would start with the smallest bridge and work their way toward the city. If Rocks Bridge was damaged, they would drive south to Bates Bridge, which Charlie assured them was much sturdier. Failing that, they could drive into the heart of Haverhill and try to cross the Basiliere Bridge. They had options.
Less than a minute later, conditions along the road suggested they might be forced to seriously consider these other options. Severe water damage appeared before they reached River Road, featuring the telltale deposit of silt and broken debris along the road. Ed switched the Jeep into four wheel drive, and they proceeded through the thick mire, which completely blanketed the landscape around the colonial-style homes that lined East Main Street. The neighborhood looked like it had been extinguished.
Signs of heavier blast damage appeared around Kingston. Denuded trees, stripped branches, roofing tiles torn skyward, and downed trees slowed their progress near the Massachusetts border, forcing them off-road several times. Rural roads approaching the Rocks Bridge had been worse, nearly impassable at a few points. The further south they travelled, the more Alex questioned their plan to approach Boston using back roads.
“This doesn’t look promising,” said Ed.
“No, it doesn’t,” mumbled Alex.
A group of several adults picked their way through the mud-covered remains of a collapsed house at the intersection ahead, pushing the larger pieces aside.
“Give them a wide berth,” said Alex.
“Got it,” said Ed, turning the Jeep toward the right side of the road. “You feel that?” he added.
“Feel what?”
“I think we’re driving over wreckage buried under the mud. All the houses are missing beyond the intersection. One nail or piece of glass and we’re on foot,” said Ed.
“Hold on,” said Alex, checking the GPS screen.
“Do you think it’s a good idea to stop in the middle of the road like this?” said Charlie. “I’m starting to see a lot of people.”
Alex’s eyes darted between the GPS screen and the growing crowd of people approaching their Jeep.
“Put us in reverse and turn around. We’ll take East Broadway toward Haverhill. Do you see any weapons?”
“Negative. They look more curious than anything. Probably the Maine plates,” said Charlie.
“Switch to sectors, Charlie,” said Alex.
“Yep,” he heard from Charlie.
Ed backed the Jeep slowly through the thick mud.
“Can’t you just turn us around?” said Alex.
“No, I can’t. We’re pushing through two feet of mud. We can still get stuck.”
Alex didn’t respond. Ed was pissed, and there was no point making it worse. He scanned his sectors and waited, keeping his rifle ready just below the door. As the intersection receded, they picked up speed.
“We clear back there?” asked Ed.
“Looks good,” said Charlie.
“I think the mud is thinning,” said Alex, knowing the comment would rattle Ed.
“Do you want to drive?” Ed snapped.
“No. I shouldn’t have said anything. You’ve been doing great. I’m just a little fried. Sorry. I think this is the turn for East Broadway,” said Alex, pointing to the road forking left.
“Make sure,” said Ed, tapping the GPS on the center console.
“Are you two gonna bust each other’s balls all the way to Boston?” said Charlie.
“He started it,” said Ed.
“I started it?” replied Alex. “This is East Broadway. Watch out for the tree over there.”
“Like I didn’t see it?”
“I don’t know what you see. I point shit out for you. That’s my job,” said Alex.
“Aw shit,” muttered Charlie. “I’m on a road trip with the bicker brothers.”
“Careful, or he’ll be all over your shit next,” said Ed.
“Too late for that warning,” said Charlie.
Alex frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve been acting like my personal physician for the past two hours. I’m fine, Alex. I just get a little winded,” said Charlie. “I don’t have all day to work out and run on the beach like you do.”
“I don’t run on the beach,” said Alex.
“You run to the beach. Same thing. Some of us have to work for a living.”
Alex didn’t know how to respond to Charlie’s last comment. It indicated something deeper than simple annoyance. Resentment? He didn’t know, and didn’t care. Alex had to keep their unconventional triumvirate together long enough to rescue the kids and get everyone back to the farm in one piece. That was his pact to the rest of them, and he would die honoring it if necessary. He needed to turn this tide of bitterness around quickly, before it swallowed them.
“Can we all agree that we annoy the shit out of each other right now?” said Alex.
“That pretty much sums it up,” said Charlie.
“I’ll second that,” said Ed.
“Good. We agree on something. Can we all agree that we’re on track to get the kids out of Boston?”
Ed nodded.
“We’re in Massachusetts. That’s a good sign,” said Charlie.
“Then I say we’ve all been doing our job, and that’s more than enough for me,” Alex said. “I’ll quit micromanaging.”
“It’s not that you’re micromanaging—” started Ed.
“He’s babying us,” Charlie interrupted.
“I didn’t realize it was that bad,” said Alex.
“It’s pretty bad,” said Ed, “but we’re sunk without you. I’m sure as shit not going to get us across Boston.”
“And Charlie wouldn’t last two city blocks on his own—with his bad health and everything,” said Alex.
“Damn it, I’m fine!” Charlie snapped.
Ed broke out into laughter before Charlie finished his tirade.
“I was kidding,” protested Alex.
“More trees,” said Ed, maneuvering the Jeep into a field to avoid a large Silver Maple that had upended.
“I don’t know if we’ll be able to approach Boston on anything too rural,” Alex said. “We might need to rethink our plan.”
“Route 125 is a four-laner. About the best you’re gonna do without linking up with one of the interstates. The 93 would take us down to the northern edge of the Middlesex Reservation. There’s an exit in Stoneham,” said Charlie.
“What do you think?” asked Alex, looking at Ed.
Ed raised an eyebrow without looking in his direction.